


Sense and Hypersensibility

by Notawriterjustalurker



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Karedevil Bingo, Matts real superpower is Karen, Mutual Pining, Sensory Overload, Sick Fic, Tiny bit of praise kink, matts brain is a mess, out of control powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notawriterjustalurker/pseuds/Notawriterjustalurker
Summary: Concussion's sometimes mess Matt up a bitPrompt fill: out of control powers
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 24
Kudos: 62
Collections: Karedevil Bingo





	1. focus on her

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've taken a lot of creative license with the sensory overload thing 🤦 and it is absolutely not based in science 😂

Matt's always been good with his mouth. Even before his Columbia Law education had him running rings around his well-meaning college profs. Words are a weapon, acceptable and legal, and they're the only thing he can get away with brandishing during the daylight hours. But lately, that routine has him feeling choked, his tie like a collar fastened a few unpleasant notches too tight, his shirt threatening to crush the bones in his chest with a reptilian-constrictiveness.

He craves the thrill of letting his fists talk instead. He's good at that too.

And it shouldn't, but the kiss of warm, gelatinous blood on his knuckles fills him with relief. And how easily he moves amongst the murky wells and putrid alleys of Hell's Kitchen fills him an unrivaled sense of freedom – he tries not to enjoy it; but the dark is nearly always punctuated by the occasional glint of his teeth.

It's **6:58am.**

That particular release was just over eight hours ago. And now he wears three, painful, fleshy trophies as a reward. One, spanning at least a palm-width across his upper back, another on his hip, and another, smaller on his shoulder. Thankfully, it had been nothing Sister Maggie's skilled needle-work couldn't fix. That seems to be the way he spends most of his time with her these days — half beaten and covered in his own blood. But, she mends him, and in a way, he mends her, while they both try their damndest not to act too happy about it.

But aside from the bag of ice she'd tossed at him unsympathetically, there wasn't much his mother could do about the swollen nodule that had since amassed itself like a half-eaten apple at the back of Matt's skull. He supposes that's the price for being too cocky, for letting his rapacious needs overflow, unguarded and unchecked. And in the end, all it had taken was one strike failing to incapacitate where it should have before the unforgiving corner of a brick wall had put an abrupt end to his night — 

— sometimes, he really, _really_ misses his red suit.

And just as nature is full of delicate equilibriums; Matt's senses are no exception. Too far one way is the difference between being able to 'see,' and being crushed, mercilessly in the dark, featureless vacuum of hell itself.

Stick insisted it was a gift. Matt always thought of it more as an unearthly beast. Unpredictable, and ill-tempered in nature — the razor-sharp breadth of its horns, his only handholds in a time when there were no others to be found. Matt knows it's easy to lose control, to be stripped back to where he started, to a time when the temperature of his own blood inside his veins felt hot enough to scold him, when the clothes on his back — even his own skin felt too rough, too abrasive. Too much to live with.

It's not a time he wishes to revisit in a hurry.

The talking alarm clock at his bedside sounds then.

It's loud and pointless.

He's already been awake for two hours. The city's baited calls have left him restless and sleep may as well be a lifetime away. 

God only knows the next time he'll see it.

*

 **9.00am**

The office is quiet. As in, lacking in bodies. It's definitely not quiet; nothing truly is. 

Foggy had already asked if he wanted to take the day, Matt thinks it was probably more of a verbal courtesy than an actual, practical suggestion, and with Nelson Murdock & Page being busier than ever, taking a day off would be nothing short of insanity at this point. 

The office door swings open then and Foggy's voice jars him, "Matt! Buddy! What you doing here? How's the noggin'? I thought I told you to rest up?"

He huffs, "I know...it's just.. home's too — "

"— no I get it, I get it. I'd wanna spend all my time with me too. There's a job on your desk. No ninja skills necessary. Karen was gonna drop it off at your place later if you didn't show."

Matt nods, "...Foggy? Speaking of.. erm...when's she in?"

Foggy answers enthusiastically enough to make Matt wince, "who? Karen? I don't know Matt, how long's a piece of string? I'm starting to think she got another job somewhere else and didn't tell us. You know we had a cat like that once?"

Usually, Matt would laugh right about now. Foggy grew up in a butchers; so if he did have an unfaithful cat, it must have been an unappreciative little shit. But he furrows his brow and mumbles a low sound of acknowledgement instead. All he really wanted to know was whether he was going to need to take an unexplained walk around the block today should Karen decide to appear — she's been happy lately. No, actually, she's been radiant — positively glowing.

Nothing to do with him of course. Can't be. 

Unless maybe it is.

He tries not to think about it. Especially with catastrophe on the horizon. The last thing he wants her to see is him doubled over, begging for the voices to stop.

**12:05pm**

It all starts with a mirror-glaze of sweat that coats his palms and trickles down the valley between his shoulders. Then a tight knot weaves itself in his throat, encroaching on the inside of his trachea.

He's starting to panic. 

This doesn't feel like a flash flood — here and gone in a moment, not like the times before. It's more of a wave, steadily cresting, an accumulation of countless forces caused by the subterranean shifting of earth, of brain matter, the eerie peacefulness he felt when he woke this morning only a mirage, like the drawing back of the tide before a tsunami pilliages the shores.

Suddenly it's too hot. Too...too everything.

He seeks out the trail of dots on the page just north of his dampened fingertips as he frames the exact same line he's already been over twice already. It's just enough time to tell himself maybe it's nothing. That maybe it's not what he thinks it is.

But as much as he tries, no words connect. The static only multiplies. 

Immediately outside: there's 102 heartbeats exactly — no. 103. Usually, sifting through them would be easy. Not today. Today they're all thrumming together in a convulsing, tangled mass, each one seeming to eat away at the edges of the other — and the more he concentrates the worse it gets, until the sidewalks for miles around are covered in a thick, auditory ooze —

He's drowning.

— The temperature is somewhere in the low 90's now and the plastic around the window frame in his office is creaking and expanding with the relentless heat of the sun. The ticking sound it makes, tap tap taps into his ear, crawling and burrowing like some kind of insect with a bone saw in place of its jaws, each spindly leg, like the puncture of a needle into soft, receptive tissue. It's enough to make hiss, make him clasp his hands to his face and shake his head violently, only to have another sensory horror quickly take its place.

Downstairs — the floor below, and the floor below that — three radio stations playing simultaneously. 'Free Fallin' by Tom Petty. 'Genie in a Bottle' by Christina Aguilera and worst of all, resonating somewhere from a squalid corner of the basement: 'Breaking the Law by Judas Priest.'

The irony of the name isn't all he hates about that song. Being roommates with Foggy, who was never short of a pair of headphones with the volume turned up too high, had more than solidified his hatred for rock music in general — 

— fuck that song. Fuck that entire album.

Matt shoves himself away from his desk and stands, stumbles.

He wonders if he's making noise. If he's screaming. He can't be sure. But as he tries to catch a breath he forgets about his bruised rib and his stitches and suddenly there's a lit flame held to his wounds, rendering them new again, worse than new. 

_Fuck_.

The pain sears, hypersensitive nerves endings reacting to nothing. He thinks about how something physical would be better. Something he can grasp with the meat of his hands — the hot tear of a blade or the bone caving thud of a fist — anything — anything but this — this is a billion tiny synapses crackling; a more vast expanse than the chasm of space that stretches out above the stars and they're vibrating: lighting up like the Rockefeller center at Christmas time — only the Christmas tree is burning. The whole damn city is burning, and it's impossible to differentiate between the abyss of the blackhole or blinding light of the supernova.

He finds one word amongst the chaos. Two syllables.

Focus.

 _Fo-cus_. 

Just like he'd done back then, writhing in his bed at the orphanage to the tune of a million sirens screeching their wretched curses into his young, terrified mind. Stick had been the answer to his prayers then: this time it's somebody else. 

He latches on to a lifeline in the form of a gently swaying but purposeful walk — a lavender scented oasis.

Karen.

Karen's here.

"So you really did drag your stupid ass in here with a concussion?" Her voice is stern and playful and as smooth as silk, right before it's cut down abruptly at the sorry sight of him. "...Matt?... You.. uh. You okay?"

"Mhm. Yeah… yeah," he lies, "it's..hot." 

"...well..erm..the air con is playing up…", she says as she releases her frown gradually, replacing it with something closer to worry, "..I.. uh.. I brought you a coffee. Probably not what you want if you're too hot but I figured you might need the caffeine."

"No no. It's...Thank you." He manages to make it far enough to take the cup from her hand, but her eyes are on him. He waits for the question.

"What's going on Matt?" She asks as she shuts the door behind her.

"Nothing… nothing. It's just.. just. Give me sec."

Matt sits and hangs his head low, gripping the at the curved cardboard in his hand —

The coffee is from Zach's. That's the cafe around the block; his favourite. Judging by the way the froth is lapping at the inside the cup the milk is probably a little too hot. 155'F is optimal. This is closer to 162F and it's burning his fingers through the protective cardboard. Matt thinks the barista was probably a newby because the coffee is a little burnt too, usually that wouldn't bother him; today it might. 

He holds it to his lips and takes a sip. 

The scent that Karen's fingertips have left behind on the cup take precedence over the taste. It's a mix of the cinnamon bagel she's just eaten and the coconuty residue of sunscreen on her hands that she applied to the end of her nose this morning.

He hears her voice again; "Matt?" 

And he must look like shit because in a moment her feet have carried her to him and she's tucking her dress between her knees to crouch down, a concerned hand splayed over his thigh.

"Talk to me Matt."

Problem is; Karen is a little too pleasant of a subject to focus on and now he's started, he finds that he can't stop.

Her dress is hugging her tight to her waist and flaring out around her knees. It reminds him of that long, hot summer when they first dated; all that raw attraction, so new and unexplored. He'd never be able to convince her now – how utterly infatuated he'd been by her beauty, even more so because she didn't know he could see it.

"You're too good to me," he sighs. And he means the coffee. As far as she knows, he's talking about the coffee.

"..oh...that? It's nothing. Besides, it's only because you got beat up. Don't get used to it."

Matt's mouth splits into a genuine, eye creasing smile for the first time today, "..I might get myself beat up more often then." And before his lips even close over the last syllable he winces with regret; Karen's body reacts and it sends his hypersenses careering towards her like an out of control semi-truck.

It's everything he feared. 

The scent of her when she's — 

"I'd rather you didn't." She clears her throat.

Lost track of thought. What were they talking about? 

Matt draws a blank. "Mhm?"

"..I'd rather you didn't… " she repeats, sceptical now if he's even listening at all. But oh, he's listening alright. Just not to her words. It's the cadence of her breath that's drawing him in, that little spot of heat pooling at her center, the moisture from where she just licked her lips, it evaporates quickly into the hot air and meets with the tip of his tongue. Now he's thinking about the taste of her mouth — how her long legs would feel wrapped around his naked torso — how her body would react when he told her she's beautiful. That she's a goddess.

That she's good fucking girl.

 _Matthew_.

"You still haven't told me what's wrong you know."

He digs the heel of his palm hard into his eye socket. "...it's.. the concussion." 

"Ohh...is it .. does it affect your…" she drops to a low whisper, "..your _senses_?"

Matt smiles thinly. She always understands.

"Yes."

"Can I get you anything? What do you need?" 

"There's nothing Karen. It's.. it just happens."

"Oh Matt," she bows her head, "that must be awful. You should go home. Rest. Until it passes. It will pass right?"

Matt nods.

Karen nods, "..okay. Well... I'll.. um, I'll leave you .. I don't want to overwhelm you."

And the part of him that's scared, the part that fears how he'll feel when she goes, almost prys his mouth open for him. But to say what? 

That the devil of Hell's Kitchen; the man who you've seen take countless beatings in front of you; for you, and smile about it after, needs a hug — and maybe a head rub – but only if it's from you?

"Okay." He answers regretfully.

"...okay...take it easy Matt...please." 

The door closes behind her and Matt thinks maybe it's time to attempt lunch.

In about five minutes. Or as soon as the fabric decides to loosen around his crotch. 


	2. Focus on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen decides to check in on Matt after seeing him 'unwell' at the office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay updating this. I couldn't decide on the tone and in the end I went for fluff and smut and a gratuitous use of italics 🤷
> 
> "Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple" — if you see this line, deconstructed and recycled, it's not mine, I stole it off Tumblr, no credit taken 😂

_ "Take it easy Matt — please." _

She'd meant it too. But really, what was the point? Since when did Matt ever take it easy? And she had places to be, the thought of getting all the way back across town to her next interview nipping at her heels; no time to ask about the translucent triangle of sweat at the back of his shirt or the disorientation in his eyes. And of course she'd be lying if she said she hadn't Googled the damn thing — not that Matt was in any way  _ typical _ , and not that answers she did find were in anyway useful, but asking questions was her job after all — finding answers even more so, and it's not like she hadn't figured out what was wrong with him — she wasn't stupid.

But Matt had been choking her up lately, a lump in her throat and a painfully familiar flutter in her chest that she thought she'd long seen the back of, especially because absolutely none of the glaring issues between them had been resolved, in fact, quite the opposite. But the taste of success was just as sweet as the whiskey, and even sweeter than that was the way he smiled at her nowadays knowing that they'd achieved it together, as Nelson,  _ Murdock & Page.  _ So, she'd been keeping her distance where she could, appreciating the days where they laughed together and enjoying them for what they were —  _ peaceful _ ; concluding that for now, Matt would just have to be a piece of a puzzle she hadn't quite figured out yet, buried until further notice, the deeper the better, for the sake of her sanity — or else, she might go digging. 

By the time the day runs its course it's 8.30pm. 

There's been no reply to her trying-not-to-care-too-much text — no phone calls. No — ''Josie's tonight? x" with its one little kiss that she tries not to read too much into. But she's not worried; maybe even a little selfishly she's less worried. Because his senses being all out of whack like this means there's probably no night shift, which means it's possible sleep will come easier tonight, not the other way around. 

But as her spare key clicks in the lock at his place she reminds herself she's only here because there's a slim chance she can actually offer up something helpful — a cup of coco, some aspirin, some company...and at this time of night, entering Matt's apartment would usually entail being greeted by a certain hollowness — an empty lair, occupied only by dancing strips of glowing lilac doing their best to outshine the fading late summer sun. But tonight she feels his presence immediately, a soft voice calling to her from the direction of the bedroom, lacking in its usual self-assured quality, and she offers a delicate tendril of her own voice back — light footsteps carrying her to where she finds him laid, a sight that would have had her laughing if he clearly weren't so uncomfortable. 

"You're here," he croaks," — I hoped.." and he stops whatever it was he was about to say in favour of trying to sit up; bedsheets kicked into a sweaty mess around his feet, no socks, grey sweats, shirtless —  _ very shirtless _ — and unsurprisingly, still looking gorgeous despite everything.

"How're you feeling?"

"Um. Kinda like old times," Matt winces, squeezing his thumb and finger over the breadth of his forehead as she sighs at the sight of him. She can't really comprehend his pain and it cuts a deep, sympathetic shadow between her brows.

"Google says focusing on something can help?" She says, offering up her mostly useless piece of research, half hoping that yes, he'll take it as a joke, because as far as she knows Google doesn't really cater for superheros.

"It does, but uh, it's still pretty bad. And Foggy started eating chips at the office so uh.. I had to —"

"— Oh God," Karen half covers her mouth, half bites back a laugh that she knows shouldn't have made it past her lips — Matt's aversion to any and all loud and crunchy foods, even on a normal day had become so glaringly obvious since she had learnt about his enhanced senses; "I'm sorry.." Karen says then, realising that for all she knows her very presence is making everything worse, be it with the volume of her voice or the rustling of her clothes, or any other number of miniscule bits of sensory bricka-brack. "...I can go — if you want quiet, I just thought — I wanted to check —"

"No—" he reaches for her, "I'd like you to stay." 

And now for some reason she's blushing. Because  _ Matt _ — Matt Murdock — arguably the worst communicator on the planet, is actually telling her what he wants, actually expressing a thought to her that's not wrapped up in some kind of morally-ambiguous enigma. It's so out of character that she wonders exactly how hard he bumped his head last night and considers the worrying possibility that he might actually be in need of real medical attention. But she replies with a modest, "sure," ignoring the glow of her cheeks and hoping that maybe on this occasion, he will too.

"Can you manage some food? I can order some.."

"No, thank you Karen," he replies leaning back again to relax into the pillows, hunched just enough to make his usually broad and powerful shoulders appear shrunken, "..oh but… um if you want to? —"

"— I just ate. But you knew that right?"

He smiles sideways, "Italian?"

"Mhm. Yeah, the ready-meal kind. Living the highlife." And his one sided smile evens out into a full one that pushes the apples of his cheeks into his eyes; enough to make her avert her own towards the floorboards.

"Karen. Thank you. Really. For checking in on me."

"Oh, don't sweat it."

"Little bit late for that." He says, indicating towards the crumpled sheet he's still clasping in his left hand,"not so glamorous huh?" 

"Since when were you glamorous?" And she watches him make that endearing sort of mock-frown — an expression she can't remember the last time she saw.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Hmm. Okay, Murdock _._ _Shift_ ," she orders, without looking at his face and before she can really think about what it is that she's asking, "...I'm at least going to be comfortable if I'm having to spend my entire evening playing nurse." Matt hisses a little as he shimmies his hips sideways to make room for her, her shoulder falling into line with his bicep as he takes a second to fluff up the pillow before her head sinks into it — "so..." Karen begins seriously, keeping her eyes fixed on the ceiling above his bed, a view that she could see herself getting used to — "...are you going to get a better suit, or are concussions just going to be a regular thing now?"

Matt puffs a little stream of air out of his nostrils and she's close enough to feel it sift through the stray hairs that have untucked themselves from behind her ear. "I'd like to say I'm working on it but…"

"— but you're not working on it?"

"I like my black suit," he counters, and Karen lets out a small, husk of a laugh that she prays will cover up any subconscious bodily reactions to the fact that she very much considers herself the Chairman of the Matt in Black FanClub.

"You'll just have to take a few more nights off then." 

"Maybe that's the point. Maybe I just wanted a night off," Matt shrugs.

"Well I mean it hasn't worked out so bad.."

"Yeah you're right." Matt runs his hands through his hair,... "It could be worse, I mean, not by much but.." — and although Karen would consider herself very much a cynic these days; that particular face — that dangerous cocktail of pearlescent smiles and playful sarcasm that makes her want to punch him and kiss him simultaneously tells her that either  _ he's _ flirting, or  _ she's _ hallucinating. 

"It doesn't bother you having me here? Does it?" She twists her head to look slightly upwards to where he's propped up just a little higher than her on the pillows, pinching his lower lip irresistibly between his teeth like he doesn't even realise he's doing it. 

"No. You uh, you help actually."

And it's suddenly like she's simmering, conscious of her hands crossed over her stomach with coffin-like rigidity — "oh. Well uh, you're welcome," she pauses, taking a breath before deciding that her curiosity is piqued past the point of caring. "Okay wait..Matt. How do I help?"

"You just do." He says simply. But he's keeping it modest, she knows that he is. They have boundaries now and one of those boundaries is Matt promising not to make a flashing billboard out of every one of her bodily functions. But right now, this close to him, this alone — all she can feel is raw, physical attraction and it's overriding pretty much everything else that's telling her all of this is a bad idea. And that's when she casts her eye away from the view that's above her — pouty lips and heavy eyelids and bed hair— to downwards — an open road of taught, tanned muscle and bandage, marked by a horizon of grey fabric and banked by a soft, but still pretty impressively distinct hump, just beyond his belly button.

"Karen– " 

"— not a word." she warns.

"But —"

"Not  _ one _ ."

"But if i just —" 

"You're not — no. It's too easy."

"What's too easy?"

"The way you — "

"You're the one who's in my bed," he counters back at nothing.

"Because you're supposed to be ill!"

"I am.. I  _ was.  _ You must have.. healing powers or something."

Karen rolls her eyes.  _ Unbelievable.  _ But it's no use. Because his fingers have found a place under her chin, tilting it up to where he's already more than met her half way, inviting her to make up the distance. And when their lips meet it's careful — so careful, like the two of them are glass. And his mouth is as hot and explorative and pillowy soft as she remembers; their hands motionless: slow, sweet, kissing sounds filling the empty hollow of Matt's bedroom.

"Matt.." she whispers,"what is this? What —"

"— I don't know. Karen," he replies low and tender and a little too quickly and she hates it because it's probably one of the most honest things he's ever said. And as she unsticks her hands from her chest and slips them over rough stubble and cool-tipped ears and into thick, messy hair she considers that although the question is complicated — perhaps too complicated for people like them – people that have barely had an an answer to anything their whole lives — that maybe, just maybe, the answer is simple. Then Matt does something ludicrously acrobatic with his tongue that confirms that this — _this_ — is an answer to _something_ at least; Karen breathing out a sound that's just short of a whimper because now they're really kissing — fevered and hungry and wanting, hands finding their way under fabric and _touching her_ and she can't think of single reason why they shouldn't, because it feels good, it feels so, so good.

So she skims her palm downwards, twisting in the sheets, touches him the way she's always wanted to; not carefully because he's wounded or tentatively because he's hurting but lustfully, because he's  _ hers _ . For now, anyway. And it makes her chest hitch when she traces her fingers over each ab, lower,  _ lower _ , until she reaches that marble-carved ridge of muscle at his hip that's equal parts strong and soft, that makes him snatch a breath from between their mouths and grip her hair in his fist just a little bit — "take them off." And he does, all thumbs and fingers as she helps push layers of fabric away from his thighs until he's free and naked and God, the view is —

But before she can consider what it is exactly she's supposed to do with this new information he's pulling her dress up and over her head, his fingers dipping under the band of lace at her hips and  _ fuck _ — the way he reacts when he skims his fingers through slickness — "Karen —" he breathes, kissing her again, _ "Karen. _ "

It's all getting unpacked now. The desperate noises she's making for him, hips rising to meet the pressure of his hand, his cock hard and leaking against her inner thigh, all those little nuances of their attraction overspilling into waves and waves and oceans.

"Matt.. do you want to..?" She asks — desperate.

"Oh, Karen of course I want to."

The thought of him inside her, moving and filling her, has her bending off the side of bed, her legs flailing ungracefully to counteract her body as she reaches for the little foiled package in her inner handbag pocket. When she turns back he's kneeling in the sheets, his hair sticking up in fluffy clumps where her fingers have been and little creases around his eyes giving away the stupid smile he's trying to bite back. He's gorgeous. It's ridiculous really. She questions for a second whether any of this is even real, except she must mutter a little piece of it out loud because Matt seems to answer by closing the gap between their mouths — "I never stop thinking about you — Karen. About  _ this _ ...making you feel good…" and he cuts himself short slipping into her, a painfully slow thrust that makes her gasp, and she can't decide what's better: the look on his face — that little crease between his brows that makes it look like he's going to explode at any second or the lines of his stomach muscles that are leading her eyes down to where he's disappearing between her thighs.

And she whimpers — " _ Matt, _ " for the third, forth, fifth time, not knowing exactly what it is that she wants except that, right now his name belongs in her mouth and she lives for the way he blushes when she says it. It accelerates the warm buzzing feeling that's already unfurling in her lower belly and he pushes her thighs back further and fucks her like she never knew she needed — " _ Jesus — _ Karen you feel so — I'm —  _ you're so _ –" and God, the dirty words look even better than the regular ones moulded around those plump lips of his.

His face makes it clear that he's not going to last long, but she doesn't care, if anything it's better this way, a million miles an hour; not a second spare to worry about a single thing except  _ this _ — and so she wraps her arms around his shoulders and neck, broad and safe, listening to the gorgeously wild sounds he's making and she lets every single one of Matt's neighbors know exactly who's making her come — and she doesn't regret a single thing about it.

" _ Holy sh… _ " Karen pants,"that — wow."

Matt pushes out a laugh that's more of a muffled grunt, hips still moving slowly, his voice somewhere behind her shoulder, lost into silk, "mhm."

"How uh.. how's your.. you know?"

"Mhm?"

"Your concussion?" Karen chuckles, wriggling slightly because the density of his unwinding body is starting to bare down on her chest.

"Oh. Yeah.  _ Better _ ." And when he rolls off, much to her relief, and lands heavily beside her, she wonders if it's just the chemicals talking or if Matt Murdock really is just one good orgasm away from being a normal man — "I uh, I was thinking...I know this great curry place. If you..."

"Are you asking me on a date? Really?"

Matt shrugs with his eyes closed, "I guess like a date yeah."

Karen laughs, aligning her body along the length of his, the place where she's already decided she's going to be staying for the rest of the night — "Okay then. But one condition."

"What's that?"

"We get to skip dessert."

  
  



End file.
